| 43 | Cruinneag Na Buaile | 43 |
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Séist O Chruinneag, e chruinneag, O chruinneag na buaile; Mo cheist cailin mo chridhe, 'S ann leat a ruithinn air fuadach. Fhuair mi litir Di-Dòmhnaich, A thug deòir air mo ghruaidhean; Iad 'g a m'iarraidh gu d'phòsadh, Fàth mo leòin thug iad bhuam thu. Cha bhhi mi 'g a d'chaoineadh, Cha'n e'n t-aog a thug bhuam thu; 'S ann a rinn thu mi fhàgail, 'S tu falbh an dràsd' le fear fuadain. 'S ann ort fhéin tha'n cùl rìomhach Air a chìreadh 'n a dhualan; E gu camlubach, bòidheach, 'S fiamh an òir air gach dual dheth. Tha do chneas mar an canach, Slios mar eal' air lòintean; Tha do ghuth mar cheòl smeòraich Seinn maduinn cheòthar 's na fuarbheann. Bheirinn bradan bho'n t-sàile, Fiadh bho àird nam beann fuara; 'S coileach dubh bhàrr géig dhuit, 'S cha bhiodh éis air mo ghruagaich. Gur e mis' a bha gòrach Gaol cho mór thoirt dh'an ghruagaich, 'S mi cho cinnteach 's is beò mi Nach fhaigh mi còir gu là-luain oirr'. 'S truagh nach robh mi 's an Fhraing leat, A Nic-Raing a' chùil dualaich; Cha bhiodh mulad air d'inntinn, 'S ceòl na fìdhle mu d'chluasan. 'S truagh nach robh mi 's a' chàrn leat, A muigh air àirigh nam fuarbheann; Leis an rìbhinn as bòidhche, Rinn mo leòn le fàs suarach. 'S truagh nach robh mi le teasach, 'N a m'laighe le fiabhrus, Mun tug mi dhuit gealladh, No mu faca mi riamh thu. Thug mi gean agus gràdh dhuit, Thar chàich thug mi luaidh dhuit; Cha chreid mi gu bràth e Nach e do mhàthair chum bhuam thu. |
Chorus O maiden, eh maiden, O maiden of the fold; My love is the young girl of my heart, I could run away and elope with you. I received a letter on Sunday That brought tears to my cheeks, Inviting me to your wedding, the reason for my sorrow is that they took you away from me. I will not lament you As it was not death that deprived me of you, You deserted me, and now You are courting a vagabond. You have beautiful tresses Combed and set in plaits They are curly and pretty, With a golden sheen on every braid. Your skin is like cotton-grass, Your side as white as a swan on the lakes; Your voice is like the music of the thrush, Singing on a misty morning amidst the cold mountain peaks I would procure a salmon from the sea, A deer from the chilly uplands; And a blackcock from the tip of the branch for you, And my sweetheart would not be in need. I was, indeed, unwise To love the maiden so much; Because as sure as I am alive, I will never gain any right to her. 'Tis a pity that I was not in France with you, Miss Rankin of the braided tresses; You would not be sad Listening to fiddle music. 'Tis a pity that I was not with you among the rocks, Far away in the shieling of the cool mountains; You beautiful maiden who Wounded me by becoming indifferent. 'Tis a pity that I was not in a state of perspiration, Lying in bed at the height of my fever, Before I gave you a promise, Or before I ever saw you. I gave you affetion and love, Above all others, I esteemed you. I will always believe that it was Your mother who kept you from me. |
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Courtesy of
An Cliath Clis
www.ancliathclis.ca